No Time For Miracles
by DaUglyChibi
Summary: John wasn't supposed to be the one standing there. Everyone knew that. Set after the events in The Great Game.


AN: Here's the first chapter of what should be just about 3 chapters if my plan works out. Reviews are greatly appreciated! Thanks for stopping by.

Chapter 1: Sleepwalker 

~~~x

John was no stranger to death. He'd seen countless people die first hand, though John actually had counted them and it was up to forty-three, which was many more deaths than one man should witness first hand. A fact he didn't go around advertising was that he had someone die at his hands. They'd been in critical condition when he'd gotten to them, and by the time he started operating he knew it was already too late, yet he had insisted on trying anyway. He'd had two people die in his arms, the first time being the reason he'd gotten that bullet in his shoulder, the second was much more horrible...

John had been released from the hospital today, even though he'd never had any injuries to speak of they'd insisted on keeping him for two days, and he hadn't had the will to protest so he'd stayed there, in the hospital, going through unnecessary procedures and as a doctor knew exactly how useless and unnecessary they really were. Another reason he stayed at the hospital was because it gave him a place to stay, that way he didn't have to think about where he'd have to go. A problem he was running into right about now. Or, a problem he'd run into as soon as they'd let him out of the hospital this morning and was currently running into repeatedly since then.

There were buildings to his left, a small park to his right, a few cars driving in the street. The sun had turned in, but John couldn't remember just how long ago. The weather was rather dreary, very cold, numbingly cold, with a slight drizzle every now and again. John did remember that it'd gotten worse since the sun had set, at least. He tried to shove his hands further into his jacket, but they were already as far in as they could go, so he tried to clench his fists tighter. That didn't work either, his fingernails were already almost cutting into his skin, though he did consider pushing just a bit harder and letting them cut into his skin just so he could feel the warmth of his own blood as it spilled into his hands...

It was about this time when one of Mycroft's unmistakable cars pulled up to the curb not too far in front of him and stopped. The door opened. John knew he shouldn't ignore it, but he really wanted to ignore it. He didn't have anywhere to go in particular, but he definitely didn't want to be taken anywhere. He was content in his wandering for now. Not even he knew where he was exactly, but of course Mycroft had known where he was. John stopped a few feet away from the door and shifted his weight from foot to foot for a moment, weighing his options. John wasn't usually the type to run, but this wasn't the usual John by anyone's standards, and he desperately wanted to run. He couldn't technically outrun the car, but he could get away from it through back alleys and such, but Mycroft's people would only find him again.

John's options were narrowed down to "getting into the car immediately" the instant Mycroft himself stepped out of the car and gestured for him to get in. The man himself coming out to fetch him? John must have been much more important than he'd first thought. He got into the car and Mycroft got in after him, they had the car to themselves. It didn't bode well for John, but he was pretty numb from the cold and the car was a much more comfortable temperature so he didn't have to worry about cutting into his hands with his own fingernails.

"If you want to talk about what happened just about seventy-two hours ago you'll have better luck with a wall, mind you." John knew he was the one speaking, he could recognize his own voice, but he hadn't realized he'd been talking until after he'd said it.

"I'm just here to offer you a ride, John."

John didn't pay attention to where they were going, he was okay with the silence, and happy just to sit there and let the dreary London scenery pass him by. The silence might have been awkward, John didn't care enough to notice, but at least it was silence. Only now did he realize how tired he was. He really didn't want to chance sleeping, though. Sleeping might lead to dreams, dreams might lead to nightmares, and John knew exactly what would fuel his nightmares if he were to have some. Luckily his sleep in the hospital had been drug induced and dreamless.

"Do you happen to know the time, John?" John looked to Mycroft, shook his head, and turned back to the window. Only to realize they'd stopped moving. Great.

"It is just a bit past one in the morning." Mycroft stated, "Seventeen minutes past one in the morning to be exact." Of course Mycroft didn't even need to check a watch, and John didn't doubt for a moment that he was right.

"We're at the hotel I was staying at." John stated, having instantly recognized where they were when he'd cared enough to try.

"Yes, I couldn't get the room you had without moving some people around, I didn't think you'd mind a different one too much." John shook his head, not wondering how Mycroft had known where he'd been staying, or why they were here. Mycoft got out of the car and held the door open for John.

"Here's your room key, John. Don't worry, everything's been taken care of. The pills in the bathroom are a prescription for you." Mycroft took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to John.

"A prescription for what?"

"The same sleeping pills you took while in the hospital. Get some rest, John."

"I'm not some sort of invalid who needs to be taken care of and watched over, I hope you know that." John wanted to say more, but he knew Mycroft was just trying to be nice in his own sort of way and didn't deserve his anger.

"I know, John."

"Thank you though, for the trouble and all."

"No trouble at all, John." The great Mycroft had to actually pause here for a yawn. "Now if you'll excuse me it is much past my usual bedtime and I must get going. Goodnight John."

"Goodnight." John sighed softly as Mycroft turned away and got back into the car. The car was out of sight before John looked down at the room number on the envelope and made his way into the hotel.

It was a carbon copy of the room he'd been staying in before... everything. They'd moved what little possessions he owned into the place, and everything was arranged almost exactly as it had been before. John didn't suspect that they'd somehow known how he'd arranged his things before, he was just so military in his habits that anyone could have arranged his things logically how he would normally arrange them himself. Especially if that someone was a Holmes.

John choked a bit at that one, had to calm himself, breath out his nose slowly, support his weight on the nearest wall for a moment. But then the wall wasn't enough and he suddenly found himself on his knees leaning against the wall, with his breath hitching much more than it should have and he was having the hardest time breathing calmly in through his nose and out through his mouth. Counting wasn't working, but of course he hadn't really expected counting to work, it was just bloody numbers, how were those going to help him now?

John was on intimate terms with death. He'd died once. A funny thing about dying is you don't remember it, obviously, because your brain stops functioning along with everything else. Those people who say they saw something or experienced some after death experience are full of it. So it's not so terrible, dying. What's terrible is death, and even more terrible watching someone else die.

"Useless, bloody useless." John didn't know if he was talking about himself, his attempts to keep his tears at bay, or his attempts to not think about what had happened just about seventy-two hours ago. He could have been referring to all three. No matter which way it was looked at, though, John was now lying on the floor and sobbing uncontrollably, despite his best attempts to refrain from doing just that. John wasn't one for tears, he felt like an idiot whenever they got the better of him, but he was glad for his solitude at this moment. He'd broken to pieces now that he was alone, but at least he was alone. No one had to witness his weakness.

The room made it worse, to tell the truth. It might have been worse than had he just gone back to 221 B... No, maybe not, but it was still like a punch to his gut when he walked into this hotel room. It was almost as if nothing had happened, everything had just been a dream...

Before he could even reach the bed the nightmares that had been his reality only a few short days ago took hold as he continued to cry into the course carpet against his cheek.

~~~x

"I would try to convince you, but, everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." Moriarty had a look of uncontrollable glee and his merriment carried over into his voice. Despite this, his threat was serious.

Sherlock caught John's eyes. John couldn't lie and say he understood what went on in that brilliant mind of Sherlock's, but at that moment John trusted Sherlock with his life. Whatever Sherlock decided to do John trusted him. He nodded his acquiesce to whatever it was that Sherlock was asking him with his eyes.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock slowly and deliberately turned the gun onto Moriarty, and then just as slowly lowered it to point at the jacket loaded with explosives. He held this position, for what felt like a lifetime, none of them moved. John knew if Sherlock pulled that trigger he would spring up and push both of them into the pool as fast as humanly possible, hopefully escaping a fiery death for both of them. If they did die taking out Moriarty, though, John would at least know it was for the better.

All these thoughts and more streamed through John's head, and he could only begin to imagine the thoughts running through the heads of the two geniuses facing each other currently. He was so caught up with watching Sherlock, preparing for the moment when Sherlock pulled the trigger, that he almost missed a muffled sound from above them and to the right. A sniper must have gotten afraid for his own life, took matters into his own hands, and shot. John cursed himself for reacting so slowly to the noise and moved to push Sherlock out of the way.

Time had already been moving in slow motion, so from here it moved in freeze frame. John's movement captured Sherlock's attention, he moved his body slightly to face him, his aim on the explosives unmoving, his face still towards Moriarty. John tried to reach him, realizing that the bullet would strike before he could reach him. John began to cry out his name, hoping that his warning will be conveyed in the sound of his voice. Before he could even finish the first syllable Sherlock had turned to face him, but it was too late. Just as Sherlock turned to face him the bullet hit. It had obviously been meant for his arm, by the trajectory of the shot based on the position Sherlock had been standing in when the shot had been made. But he'd shifted slightly, just ever so slightly, and from the position of the sniper and that slight movement the shot meant for his arm went straight through his heart.

The original emotions on Sherlock's face when he'd turned towards John were curiosity and concern, which turned to dread when he saw John's own look of dread, and the final emotions that had been forever struck upon those majestic features were of resignation and sorrow.

John caught Sherlock before he fell, falling to his own knees and supporting the now lifeless body upright in his arms. His death had almost been instantaneous, John had caught him just in time to feel the final beat of his heart against him. The greatest man he'd ever known was unmistakably dead in his arms, he made to cry out but no sound escaped his lips. The shock stole away his tears and all he could do was numbly hold the dead body of the man he'd quickly grown so impossibly close to. The man he'd come to admire unabashedly, vehemently scorn, admittedly adore and also abore simultaneously was gone, and his blood was soaking him through his clothes. Still, John wouldn't let him fall to the ground, he wouldn't let him go. He was too late... John was always too late...

Moriarty was far from quiet, and at some point his absolute rage pierced through John's cloud of depression. John finally remembered that his life was also hanging in the balance here, but it seemed Moriarty had bigger problems to deal with.

"I will tear your head clean off of your shoulders with my bare hands! But before that, I will make sure everyone and everything you hold dear in this world is ripped slowly and painfully from you. Your precious little daughter? I will make you watch as she is raped until she dies! Don't think you can run, you're life is mine and I will see to it that you remember that. You will become an example for others in the future who even begin to try and think for themselves like you did." Moriarty's entire body radiated rage, every instinct in John's body screamed at him to run, but he wouldn't leave Sherlock, even if he was dead.

"The rest of you, out! Get out of here before I change my mind and have you all join in his torture!" The red dots all disappeared instantaneously, the men controlling them assuredly gone with them. John was left alone with an enraged James Moriarty and a dead Sherlock Holmes.

Moriarty turned to him, his cool demeanor completely broken by his rage. "I don't need you to tell me he's dead, doctor, so get out." The title was spat out at him, as if it was an insult, and Moriarty didn't need to threaten him explicitly because the threat was embedded into his words. Yet John couldn't will his body to move. He couldn't leave Sherlock, even if Sherlock had technically already left him, John couldn't leave Sherlock physically, couldn't bring himself to abandon him, even if he was just an empty shell.

"I was never going to kill him. Maybe you, but never him, it was never going to be him. Oh sure I talked big, but I'd never kill him, too much potential to be wasted on death. Hurt him, yes, torture him, very yes, but kill him? Never." Moriarty may have addressed him, but he was not talking to him, he was talking to the air. Now he turned to address him tough, directed his gaze right into John, almost destroying him with his rage alone.

"This is all your fault, you know. Thought you were clever. I saw your ears prick up like the faithful dog you are at the sniper's shot. But instead of saving him you doomed him! Had you not reacted to the shot he would have only been wounded. Still unacceptable, but much better than our current predicament, wouldn't you say Johnny-boy?" Moriarty had crossed over to John, put his hand in his hair as if to caress him and then yanked up and pulled the hair from the roots, pain searing through John's scalp instantly.

"See what you did? Do you see? This is all your fault, bad Johnny-boy, bad!" Moriarty flung John's head backwards away from him. John didn't give up Sherlock's body, though, he held onto it and stubbornly kept it propped upright against himself.

"He's dead because of what you did Johnny-boy, not because of me or anyone else, but because of you. And if nothing else I say get's through that thick skull of yours let this get through. You killed him. Sherlock's dead because of you." Moriarty cracked up laughing here, even his laughter full of rage. "And I'm alive, unscathed! The only man to really stand a threat against me is dead, and it's all your fault little Johnny-boy." Looking back on it, John knew he should have taken the gun out of Sherlock's hand at that point and shot the laughing madman, but at that point in time John hadn't been able to do anything of the sort. Moriarty's words wounded him far worse than any bullet could have, they hurt all the more because they were true.

Without John being aware of it Moriarty had moved so his lips were right next to John's ears. "You will suffer, Johnny-boy, if not by my hands by your own." Moriarty pulled away from him and focused for a moment on Sherlock's dead face, blood was dripping a bit out of his mouth and those final two emotions of resignation and sorrow were carved onto his features. "Farewell." Moriarty kissed the dead man on the lips, staining his own lips with blood and licking them as he pulled away, not smiling but truly wearing sadness and regret across his face. John had flared up with an anger of his own at this defiling of Sherlock's body, but hadn't been able to do anything about it. It seemed his body was stuck and he had no control over it.

Even as Moriarty stalked out of the place and John wanted desperately to get up and punch him in the back of his head John couldn't find the will to move his body. Not with the thought of Sherlock's death being his own fault encompassing all of his other thoughts. John would have given anything to go back, to somehow prevent this fate from occurring, even if it meant his own life, he would have given anything. John wanted desperately to switch places with Sherlock, that beautiful mind still living while his own useless self lying dead on the floor. He'd saved Sherlock's life before, all for naught, now the great detective was dead and he was to blame. The tears might have escaped his eyes and started to flow down his face, because as he was looking down at the face of the man who he'd killed instead of saved tears fell from the dead man's eyes. John knew they must have been tears from his own face falling down onto Sherlock's, but it was still heart wrenching. It was as if Sherlock was crying for him to save him, John could almost hear him saying "Why did you let me die, John?" and it was too much, John collapsed.

That was how they must have been found, a tangled mess of blood and limp limbs with an unconscious John Watson fallen on top of the dead body of the great Sherlock Holmes.

~~~x

They hadn't asked John too many questions when he'd come to, John supposed it was because Mycroft had probably gathered most of the situation himself when he had arrived on the scene. John thought it must have been terrible to be Mycroft at that moment, coming in just a bit too late to save his brother and having to calculate what had happened through inspecting the aftermath. This was another reason John didn't lash out at Mycroft, John knew he must be suffering like he was, Mycroft also probably blamed himself for Sherlock's death. Though John knew he was to blame. Mycroft had probably gotten most of the story out of the wreckage but there was no way he could have known the words that had been said, the words that haunted John not only because Moriarty had said them, but because his own mind chimed in and said them as well.

John knew he'd drive himself mad with his own self-pity. Regretting what had happened wouldn't bring the great detective back, and it wouldn't help anything. It was hard for John to think about living his life without Sherlock now, even though only a few months ago that name would mean nothing to him. It meant everything to him now. He knew better than to think justice was revenge but he desperately wanted revenge. Not right now, he was much too distraught to try to exact revenge any time soon, but eventually. And he knew he would need help, he wasn't too proud to ask for help. Mycroft would most likely agree to help him, and would probably be the most helpful ally for him to have against Moriarty.

Moving away from the regret and sadness and onto revenge helped John pick himself up off of the floor, both metaphorically and literally. It was light outside now, but it didn't look too late in the day. A quick glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table revealed it was just past nine in the morning. John sat on the edge of the bed that hadn't been slept in and held his head in his hands for a moment. He didn't let himself fall into this trap again, though, and wiped his face with his hands and stood up again.

John grabbed some clothes out of the closet and moved into the bathroom with them. He took one look at himself in the mirror and had to look away. He looked like a complete mess, a wreck of the man he had been. He looked older, sadder, like someone to be pitied. He didn't want to look like that, didn't want to been seen like that. He'd take a shower and put himself back in order. Before taking off his clothes he emptied his pockets, putting his cell phone, wallet, and keys next to the sink. He paused to look at his keys. He still had a key to 221 B… He could go there. For what end he wasn't a hundred percent sure yet. All he could think of was that he might somehow find some solace there.

~~~x

Standing outside of the flat on Baker Street happened without John having to think too much about it. His feet brought him here almost automatically, like he could never forget the way there. But the next part, actually walking up to the flat and going inside, he was stuck. He took the keys out of his pocket, went up to the door, but when he went to put the key in and placed his hand on the handle he retracted his hand like it'd been burned. What was he doing here? He turned away and walked quickly back the way he came. There were so many reasons for him not to go back to Baker Street. Not only was it probably crawling with Moriarty's men, he knew he'd just end up throwing himself a pity party if he went into the flat. Seeing everything as Sherlock had left it… He couldn't decide which would have been worse, the flat being emptied or if it were just as they'd left it. Either way, John knew he wasn't ready for it yet. His wounds were still fresh, he didn't want to aggravate them and not give them time to heal.

~~~x

John called the hospital when he got back to the hotel, of course they knew what had happened, but he was wondering when he could start working again. They told him they'd been expecting him to take more time off, at least another week, but they'd see and get back to him.

John didn't like being taken care of, and knew if he could bury himself in work he might be able to give his wounds enough time to heal without reopening them. For now, though, there was a dark void awaiting him on the edge of his subconscious. It sucked him in whenever he didn't occupy his mind with something else, and once it took hold of him there was little he could do to fight it. It was like sleepwalking in the grip of a nightmare. This was what his life had become, and he couldn't find the strength to make it right again yet. He would, but for now he felt just as cold and numb as he'd felt that first night out of the hospital.

He knew time would never heal his wounds, but a hefty dose of revenge would help alleviate the pain.


End file.
